


Way Down (We Go)

by hunenka



Series: Way Down (We Go) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Episode: s13e22 Exodus, angsty porn, introspective Ketch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: Upstairs, everyone is celebrating. Down in one of the bunker’s lower floors, Arthur drinks whisky and watches Dean dance around a punching bag.Episode tag to 13x22Exodus.





	Way Down (We Go)

**Author's Note:**

> [IzumiLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IzumiLover/pseuds/IzumiLover) was inspired by my fic and made some awesome Dean/Ketch fanart, so make sure to check it out [here](https://noeizumispn.tumblr.com/post/180690418143/because-hunenka-s-fic-way-down-we-go-on-ao3-is)! (Just a warning: it’s NSWF.)

Compared to the vast open spaces of the bleak apocalyptic world, the bunker feels cramped, crowded, almost claustrophobic. Arthur isn’t easily bothered by such things, but together with the annoyingly cheery atmosphere in the war room, it’s overwhelming enough to make him want to scarper.

He considers slipping outside to go for a run, get some fresh air, but when he sees the way Sam and Castiel—even Mary, and now  _that_  hurts—watch him with caution they don’t even try to conceal, he quickly rejects the idea. Instead, he commandeers a bottle of whisky and makes himself scarce, heading deeper into the bunker.

Some of the survivors have already spilled out into the corridors, standing around and chatting, beers in their hands. A few of them found their way into the kitchen, where they're digging around the fridge and cabinets, laying out whatever they find on the central worktop. Arthur should probably grab a bite too, but for the time being, his need for a little calm and space prevails. He can always come back later; after the lockdown last year, the bunker is surely stocked well enough that there'll be plenty of food still left.

Walking past what he knows are the Winchesters’ rooms and several others, he continues down the stairs that take him one level lower, where he expects it to be quiet.

Except it’s not.

Grunts and punches are coming from behind a closed door at the end of the corridor, and Arthur thinks,  _So that’s where he is_.

The need for solitude is suddenly forgotten, replaced by something else that makes Arthur open the door and walk inside the room. It’s a gym, in the middle of it a punching bag swinging from the ceiling, and next to it Dean, watching Arthur.

“Huh. It’s you,” Dean says, and it’s unclear whether he considers that to be a good thing or not. Before Arthur can ask, or even figure out whether he wants to know, Dean's attention is back on the punching bag.

Alright then.

Arthur settles down in the corner, on a mat that must remember the times the bunker was built. He reckons if Dean didn’t tell him to piss off, he might as well stay here.

The whisky burns nicely as it goes down, so he takes another sip and holds it in his mouth, savouring the taste, before swallowing. He sets the bottle down and leans against the wall, legs stretched out, and lets his eyes wander. There’s a set of weights in one corner, a wooden box bench and a horse bench, ceiling-mounted pull-up bars and some more equipment that could earn you a nice sum if you sold it to a museum.

The only thing that looks newer—a Winchester update, no doubt—is a weight machine that doesn’t exactly look brand new either, and of course the heavy punching bag, which is swinging back and forth under the constant flow of Dean’s punches.

“So,” Arthur starts, because whisky and light conversation go together well. “What are you doing here?”

Dean pauses, looks at him. “I’m hitting a punching bag with my fists,” he says slowly, as if explaining something to a kid.

Arthur sighs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. It's an urge he gets a lot around Dean. “I can  _see_ that. I meant, what are you doing down here when everyone is upstairs?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, I’m not exactly friends with my… fellow combatants there, so it’s not like they’ll miss me if I slip out. Unlike you, I imagine.”

Silence, except for the punches and light footfalls.

“Your mother is upstairs.”

Lead punch. Uppercut. “Yep.”

Not the way to go then. Arthur sighs. “I’m just saying, one would think you’d be celebrating with the merry band of survivors.”

“Clearly I’m not.”

“Care to enlighten me why?”

Now it’s Dean who sighs. “Not really, but if it shuts you up… I don’t wanna celebrate.” Elbow strike. “Celebrating means thinking you’ve won. Thinking you’ve won means you let your guard down, and that’s when things go to shit.”

Arthur can relate to that. In his experience, the universe has a tendency to kick you in the balls when you sprawl out on the sofa. And yet… “You brought all those people to safety. Lucifer must be dead by now and Michael is stuck on the other side, trapped without his prophet Kevin Tran to open the portal for him. Asmodeus is also dead, as I’ve been told.” This particular news brought him more relief than he cares to admit. “The threats have all been eliminated. Despite all that, you’re expecting complications?”

Dean snorts. “Always.” Roundhouse kick. “I thought you of all people would get that.”

The alcohol is doing a good job of loosening Arthur’s tongue. “I do. I just thought... maybe we’d get lucky. Get a break.”

Dean goes still, looking at Arthur with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, head tilted to one side, as if trying to figure out if he really just heard what he thought he heard. “Ketch,” he says finally, and the tone of talking to a little child is back, now with an added pinch of pity. “People like us don’t _get lucky_. We don’t get a break. Ever.” His expression hardens. “So if you thought changing sides would get you a happily-ever-after, then I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how it works.”

It hits Arthur, the intensity of Dean’s stare, the bitterness behind those words. The conviction—more like resignation, really. Like this is the way things just are and always will be. It makes him drop his gaze, down to his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. He closes his eyes and takes a long drink, then another.

He can hear Dean moving again, light footsteps and heavy thuds as he dances around the bag, breaths coming out even, controlled.

It’s not like Arthur pictured himself getting a happily ever after. He always figured he’d die bloody. Ugly. He just thought now that he's fighting for the right cause, with the right people… well, he’s not sure what he thought. What he expected.

He’s not getting it anyway.

Besides, he thought he was fighting for the right cause with the right people, too, before. Who knows what he'll think in a year, or five. If he lives that long, of course.

He takes another long gulp, waiting for the whisky to do its work while his mind runs at a fast pace in directions he’d rather steer clear of.

The thing is, he's not entirely sure why he changed sides in the first place. What made him  _want_ to change.

It started with Mary, that first rebellion, Arthur going against the order to eliminate all American hunters to save her.

But somehow, a thought comes—stupid, must be the whisky talking—that the permanent change of heart is Dean's fault. All those cold, disdainful looks Dean would always give him, all the disgust, mistrust. That burning moment earlier this year when Arthur asked Dean to consider he might actually be one of the good guys and Dean dismissed the suggestion with zero hesitation… and for some reason, Arthur wanted so hard to prove him wrong.

Maybe Dean put a spell on him, awakening a conscience Arthur never knew he had. Luring him in, making him want to get better, to prove himself to Dean and those Dean holds dear, even if it means doing things that are, as previously discussed, impossible and stupid.

"Well, fuck you," Arthur mutters vaguely in Dean's direction.

If Dean hears him, he doesn't let it show.

So Arthur drinks and Dean keeps at it with the bag.

Nothing else to talk about and nowhere else to go, Arthur watches Dean.

Ah, what the hell. Who is he fooling here? He’s been watching Dean since he walked in, and his gaze has been drawn to the older—oldest, really—Winchester probably since he first saw him. Definitely since they shared that bottle of expensive Scotch, the air between them sizzling with tension.

The air doesn't sizzle now. Despite the bunker’s fairly efficient air conditioning, the room is heavy with Dean's sweat—clean but strong, heady. Dean's workout clothes are drenched with it in places, sticking to his back, his shoulders, his thighs. Making Arthur's eyes cling to those places too, watching the play of flesh and muscles underneath as Dean moves.

Quite frankly, it's a joy to watch. Dean is light on his feet, perfectly balanced as he delivers strike after strike, a steady, constant flow of punches and kicks. Great footwork, great arms and upper body work, great breathing technique. None of this comes as a surprise of course; Dean is a professional.

Hell, Dean stood his ground against Arthur when he was pumped full of whatever drug cocktail Toni cooked up, and if Arthur hadn't pulled a gun on him, he probably would've won. Dean knows what he's doing.

And Arthur has always had a bit of thing for competence. (It’s what’s first drawn him towards Mary, too, but that’s not a train of thought he cares to follow right now.) He figures he's done good, he deserves to indulge himself a little. So he leans back more comfortably, spreads his legs a bit more to make room for the erection growing in his pants, sips on his whisky and enjoys the view.

The curve of Dean’s back, accentuated by the t-shirt sticking to his skin.

The thick thighs, firming and relaxing in accordance with Dean’s movements.

The impressive biceps stretching Dean’s short sleeves to the limit.

The broad shoulders and the corded tendons in Dean’s neck, the sweat that makes his skin shine in the artificial light.

The stiff little peaks of Dean’s nipples underneath worn black cotton.

The concentrated look on Dean’s face, full lips in a pout, eyes on the target, cheeks flushed.

Arthur watches, and he _wants_.

He’s not sure how much time passes, too lost in the spectacle, but eventually Dean stops to take a break. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand, he bends down to pick up a water bottle from the floor, unscrews the cap and starts drinking, draining almost the whole bottle in one go. Head tipped back, long stretch of neck exposed, working as he swallows gulp after gulp. Eyes closed, long eyelashes resting against flushed cheeks. Mouth red and shiny wrapped around the bottle.

When he’s done drinking, Dean opens his eyes. And catches Arthur staring.

Ah, bollocks.

No point denying it, Arthur stares on.

Dean stares back. He licks his lips slowly, and Arthur’s eyes can’t help but track the movement. When he remembers to look back up to Dean’s eyes, he finds them watching him with a calculating look that makes him feel like a mouse cornered by a cat.

That’s not a feeling Arthur is familiar with, but oddly enough he likes it, likes Dean’s full attention on him, even with that predatory quality to it.

Then Dean sort of shrugs and starts undoing his hand wraps. The white strips of cloth end up on the floor.

Dean licks his lips again, slowly, deliberately. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, and walks out of the room. Leaving the door open.

Arthur gapes. Then he collects his wits and pushes to his feet, rushing to follow.

But Dean’s in no hurry, walking through the corridor slowly enough for Arthur to easily catch up. Or not entirely catch up, because Dean keeps to the middle of the corridor, leaving Arthur no option but to stay right behind him.

Well, it gives Arthur a fine view.

They reach that floor’s showers like this, Dean first and Arthur close behind. Dean walks in, again leaving the door open. Shutting and locking it once Arthur is inside. He doesn’t pay any attention to Arthur after that, though. Acting as if he were alone in the room, he starts the water in one of the shower stalls and begins to strip. Quick and methodical, no teasing about it, no drawing it out. No attempt at seduction.

Not that it’s needed.

Arthur watches, mesmerized, as more and more skin is revealed to his gaze until all of Dean’s clothes lie in a pile on the floor. Dean has the body of a warrior, battle-hardened, toned and muscled where it's needed, not where it looks good flexing in front of a mirror. Scars and bruises bear witness to how much he's been through, how much he's survived. He's a weapon in his own right, really; deadly and beautiful.

He swallows loudly.

Dean steps under the showerhead, still paying Arthur no attention as he tilts his face up to catch the spray. He’s soaking wet in a matter of seconds, skin pinking up all over as hot water runs down his body, forming tracks in the fine, sparse hair on his chest that grows darker and thicker around his navel and below. Leading Arthur’s gaze down to where Dean’s not quite hard yet, but definitely getting there.

Dean slicks his hair back, getting a few unruly strands out of his forehead, and reaches for the bottle of shower gel on the rack. No seductive poses follow, no slow show of Dean soaping himself up—there are just quick and efficient touches of deft, big hands as Dean gets himself clean. It doesn’t take him long, but when he’s done, he squints at Arthur, frowning. “You coming, or are you just gonna stand there and watch?”

The question, however flippant, confirms that Arthur isn’t misinterpreting the whole situation horribly. That this is really happening. Which finally spurs him into action, and he loses his clothes just as quickly as Dean did. He groans in relief when his erection is freed, gives it a few lazy tugs before joining Dean.

Dean, who stands there motionless, hands loose at his sides, feet slightly apart, waiting. Head held high, stance relaxed. And yet, the feeling of being a cat in front of a mouse is back.

Arthur ignores it, stepping closer. He reaches out, puts one hand on Dean’s upper arm, squeezing the firm muscle there, while his right hand goes straight for Dean’s dick. Dean lets himself be touched, shuddering when Arthur wraps wet fingers around him. Fully hard now, breath quickening, hands grabbing onto Arthur’s shoulders.

“That’s it,” Arthur says, and starts stroking Dean, slow. He takes another step forward, leaning in, but before his lips can meet Dean’s, Dean ducks, turning his head to the side. Arthur tries a second time, but Dean once more avoids the kiss, this time pressing a wide-open palm in the centre of Arthur's chest.

Alright, message received. No kissing. Which is a crying shame, because Arthur just knows those dark, full lips would feel amazing against his, but he doesn't want to push his luck. Besides, there's plenty of other things to do—he wants to explore every inch of Dean's body, find out what makes him tick and then drive him crazy with it.

He's already got some ideas: Dean's nipples, for one, because there's no way they aren't extra sensitive considering how hard they got just from Dean’s soft, washed-out shirt rubbing against them when he was training.

Closely watching Dean's face, Arthur experimentally runs the pad of his thumb over Dean's right nipple, and sure enough there it is, Dean's mouth dropping open, breath quickening. Arthur repeats the movement, then scrapes his nail against the hard little peak, chuckling when Dean whines and his dick twitches in Arthur’s hand.

Dean's eyes, which have almost fluttered close, open wide again, zeroing in on Arthur's smirk.  _He's pissed_ , Arthur thinks, dropping his hand, but Dean just shrugs, gives a smirk of his own, and guides Arthur's hand back to his chest.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

"Yeah," Dean says, voice rough and low, barely audible over the loud sound of running water. "Yeah.”

Emboldened, Arthur continues, using both hands to tug and pinch and twist until Dean's nipples look sore-red, Dean's blunt nails digging into his arm as he holds on.

And Dean's touching him back, right hand disappearing between their bodies, where their cocks are pressed together, wrapping around them both in a tight grip that has Arthur gasping, shaking. Shaking harder when Dean's mouth ghosts along the shell of his ear and latches onto his lobe, all sharp teeth and wet tongue and incredibly soft lips.

"Dean," he grits out, and Dean's the one chuckling now, free hand roaming across Arthur's back, his side, his chest, awakening fire wherever it goes. Arthur sways a little when Dean's fingers brush his balls, then catch them in a firm, sure grip. "Fuck."

Dean's moving again, pushing and pulling until they’re not directly under the spray anymore. And then he slides down, down, and Arthur's heart skips a beat at the sight of Dean Winchester on his knees, face mere inches from his cock, looking up at him from beneath wet, spiked eyelashes with big, unguarded eyes.

There’s a weird sense of déjà vu before Arthur realizes he’s seen that strangely intimate look before. Twice, actually.

First when he broke into the bunker to get Mary, right after he tore off the electrodes from Dean’s temples and forcibly dragged him out of whatever dream world he was in. That vulnerability of Dean looking up at him from his chair, tears running down his face—that’s something Arthur will never forget.

The second time, a fresher memory, is of Arthur ripping open Dean’s shirt to take care of the poisoned bullet wound, Dean’s skin hot to the touch, muscles underneath straining with pain. The poison working its way through Dean's veins and Dean again giving Arthur that open, vulnerable look that was so out of place on a man as dangerous and tough as him. Sitting in the snow and letting Arthur put his hands on him, big eyes holding Arthur's as Arthur warned him that this would hurt.

He remembers how Dean's body went tense when the antidote was applied, muscles rigid with the effort to hold still. The sounds Dean made, those cut-off grunts that went straight to Arthur' dick. The fact that Arthur, mouth running on autopilot, got away with calling Dean a good lad.

He thinks he might get away with it now, too.

And then he doesn’t think, because Dean’s done staring at him and moves forward, parts his lips wide and swallows him down.

“Ahh—"

Dean hums, the sound vibrating around Arthur’s dick, and then he leans forward, taking in more of Arthur’s length, and more still. He’s doing it fast, practically aggressive about getting as much of it inside his mouth as he can, as quickly as he can. His eyes are shut tight and he’s frowning a little in concentration, breathing sharp through his nose. It feels like he’s trying to suck out Arthur’s brain through his dick and it’s working.

Knees almost buckling, Arthur puts his hands on Dean’s head to steady himself. Dean hums again, and guides Arthur's hands to the back of his head, encouraging him to fuck his face.

Arthur is more than happy to oblige. He thrusts forward, a sharp snap of his hips, the head of his cock hitting the back of Dean’s throat. And Dean sputters a little, but he just goes with it, almost pliant in the firm grip of Arthur’s hands.  _Almost_ , because when Arthur tries to get Dean to slow down, offer him a little break, Dean just gives this unhappy grunt and brings it back to how he wants it, which is apparently fast and rough.

And he’s taking it like a champ—or like the professional he used to be, according to the old records the British Men of Letters have in Dean’s file. Keeping his throat relaxed, his lips tightly sealed around Arthur’s cock, tongue seemingly everywhere at once. The way it’s going, Arthur’s not going to last long. Pleasure's building up inside him rocket-fast, Dean’s expert mouth on his cock and hand cupping his balls working him so easy Arthur feels like he’ll blow any moment.

That just won’t do. Not unless Dean’s there tumbling over the edge with him.

With colossal effort, Arthur sets to make Dean ease up; a truly difficult task because Dean doesn’t  _want_  to slow down, swatting Arthur’s hands away. When Arthur finally succeeds in pushing him off, Dean opens his eyes and gives Arthur a strangely confused, unfocused look, as if he completely forgot Arthur is even there, lost somewhere in his head.

Completely unaware of what he looks like—down on his knees, lips and chin shiny with saliva and precome, hair a complete mess, the green of his eyes almost invisible for how wide his pupils are blown. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, and he’s swaying a little like he’s light-headed. His left hand is wrapped around his dick, the dark, purple head peeking out from between white-clenched fingers.

It’s only Arthur’s considerable self-control that saves him from coming right on the spot just from the sight before him. “If you don’t slow down, I won’t be able to hold out for much longer.”

Dean shrugs, as if to say that’s fine by him, and moves to get back to it.

But Arthur doesn’t want it to end like this, Dean jacking himself off while blowing him. He wants to be the one who brings Dean to completion, wants to see Dean’s face when he comes, feel him fall apart under Arthur’s touch. He’s fairly sure he can’t outright admit that, though, so instead of trying to explain, he just grabs Dean by the arm, urging him to get to his feet, which Dean eventually does with an annoyed shrug that says he’s only allowing this so that things can back on track.

Just as well.

“Let’s try it like this again.” Arthur guides Dean’s hand to his cock, then wraps his own around Dean and starts stroking, groaning when Dean quickly gets on with the program and reciprocates. “Gets us nice and close.”

They’re face to face this way, bodies pressed together, and Arthur can feel Dean’s breath on him, can hear it get quicker and quicker against the backdrop of the shower running somewhere off to the left. Dean’s jacking him fast and rough—apparently that’s what he’s after tonight—and Arthur mirrors the pace and intensity. Soon it’s just their harsh breathing and the sounds of wet skin against wet skin. This is getting out of control sooner than planned.

Even as pleasure begins to build inside Arthur again, strong enough now that it's so tempting to drop his eyes shut and just  _feel_ , he keeps his gaze firmly trained on Dean. He wants to see it, is hungrier for it the closer it gets, can practically taste it—and then Dean lets go, pushing him away, shaking his head. “No,” he says, though it’s more of a discontent sound than a word.

Before Arthur can protest, he finds himself manhandled and pushed around by Dean’s strong and very determined hands until they’re standing front to back, Dean pressing against him in shameless invitation, letting Arthur’s cock nestle in the cleft between his ass cheeks.

“You want closer? Doesn’t get closer than inside my ass.” Dean grinds against him; a slow, languorous roll of his hips, and Arthur’s body responds on its own accord, pushing back, hands taking a firm grip of Dean’s waist.

“That’s it, yeah.” Dean leans forward, letting go of Arthur’s sides to prop his arms against the wall. “Come on.”

“Lube?” Because change of plans notwithstanding, there’s no denying Arthur wants, needs, what Dean is so bluntly offering.

“Don’t need it. Just do it.”

“Well, I do.” Arthur grew up at a boarding school—albeit one for oh-so-noble protectors of the unsuspecting innocents—and he knows that without proper lubrication and prep, this sort of thing isn’t comfortable for either party, to say the least. “In fact, I insist.”

Dean’s annoyed sigh is of epic proportions, but he untangles himself from Arthur’s hold and strides over the steam-filled room to get a bottle of KY and a box of condoms from one of the cabinets by the wall, slapping them into Arthur’s hand. He gets into his original position, hands against the wall, back arched, legs spread wide, and turns back to glare at Arthur in challenge. “Happy now?”

“Quite.”

“Good. Now come on.” Dean pushes back against him again, and it’s all raw, impatient need, which makes it all the more enticing.

A squeeze of the bottle, lukewarm lube on Arthur’s fingers. He doesn’t waste time warming it up, which is appreciated by a happy sigh when he rubs one fingertip over Dean’s hole and starts to slip it inside.

Dean is hot and tight—so tight— but he’s immediately rocking back to take more. His head drops to rest against his right arm, and he reaches back with his left to grab his ass cheek, spreading himself even more open to Arthur’s eyes. “More.”

“Be patient,” Arthur replies, but does as he’s told since Dean is relaxing nicely enough around his finger for another to be added. Dean lets out a deep grunt, only partly muffled by his arm, when Arthur’s fingers find his prostate, and he jumps a little before holding still again.

“Good lad.” It slips out, unintentional but not unnoticed.

Dean lifts his head and turns to give Arthur a quick glance, one eyebrow raised as if to say  _Really?_ , but that’s the extent of his reaction because Arthur twists his fingers inside him, making Dean moan. Soon, he’s not holding himself open for Arthur anymore, both arms out, palms against the wall, head down, panting loudly. The position perfectly accentuates the breadth and strength of his freckle-peppered shoulders and his back as he moves, fucking himself on Arthur’s fingers with quick, sharp movements. “Come  _on_  already.”

And while Arthur wouldn’t mind drawing this moment out a bit longer, part of him is more than happy to oblige. It has been a while for him, after all. Besides, he doesn’t want to waste what is probably his only chance by frustrating Dean too much; there’s a real possibility he might end up getting knocked out and miss the grand finale entirely if Dean decided he’s done waiting and took matters in his own hands, so to speak. “Alright, alright.”

He withdraws his fingers, bends down to grab the box of condoms Dean brought and rolls one on, slicks himself up while Dean’s impatient grumbling escalates, and then they both groan when he starts pushing inside. Slow, because even with the prep, Dean’s too tight for him to just slam home without it being too painful for both of them. Dean seems to agree for once, showing unprecedented patience as he slowly takes inch after inch, body shaking slightly under Arthur’s hands.

“Fucking finally,” Dean says when Arthur bottoms out, and the way he says it makes Arthur think it’s been a while for him as well. Which is hard to understand, considering Dean’s looks and his magnetism, for lack of a better word, but Arthur doesn’t dwell on the thought. He’s got better things to do.

Like pulling out almost all the way, slowly, and then right back into the tight heat. One, two more easy thrusts and then he can’t go slow anymore, slamming inside in one quick thrust that makes Dean gasp. Arthur likes that sound so he does it again, hard enough that Dean loses balance for a second, pitching forward, palms slipping on wet tiles before he catches himself.

Arthur tightens his grip on Dean’s hips, Dean’s pink flesh turning white under his fingers.

“Yeah, like that,” Dean says, grunting when Arthur grips him even harder. “Make me feel it.”

Vision narrowing to just the man in front of him, Arthur picks up the pace. He’s not holding anything back, using his full strength to drive into Dean, deep. None of the finesse he likes to boast to his bed partners, just brute force and a fast tempo, Dean easily matching him in both. Wanting more, it seems, canting his hips back as he tries to drive Arthur even deeper.

Letting go of Dean’s hip, Arthur reaches around to take Dean’s cock in his hand, matching the rhythm with his thrusts. He won’t last long, but he’ll be damned if he leaves Dean hanging.

“The floor,” Dean says suddenly.

“What?”

“Get on the floor,” and Dean’s wiggling free, turning around, pushing on Arthur’s shoulders with firm, uncompromising hands. He's rather high maintenance, it appears, and Arthur is going to comment on the amount of demands and rules Dean's making up, he is, but not right now. Not when Dean says, "Gonna ride you. Get down already.”

“A bed would be more comfortable,” Arthur suggests, but hurries to lie down on his back on the floor anyway. He needs to be inside Dean again as soon as possible.

“I ain’t taking you to my bed.” Dean straddles him, grabs Arthur’s dick to hold it in place and lowers himself on it, sinking all the way down. He grinds down, shifts a little, leans back a bit, then stops moving. He holds that position and groans low and deep, like he just found something good, and smiles, eyes falling closed.

One deep, loud inhale, a slow exhale.

The next moment, Dean goes from zero to sixty, like an explosion. He lifts up, slams down, up and down, up and down, powerful thighs working, the tempo frantic, insane, riding Arthur like there’s no tomorrow.

Arthur does his best to give as good as he gets, thrusting up to meet Dean halfway every time Dean sinks down. Dean has one hand on Arthur’s leg for balance, jacking himself with the other. He seems to be lost in his own world once more, eyes shut and head thrown back, chasing his own pleasure and blocking out everything else. Moving fast, his breathing loud, his moans and gasps even louder. Unhampered, unguarded, unfeigned and absolutely glorious.

Arthur can’t take it anymore. He braces his legs for better leverage and rocks up into Dean again and again, and he might be saying something, probably something stupid, but it doesn’t matter because Dean’s a wild beast bouncing up and down on his cock, hot and tight. Fast, fast, faster, until it’s all a blur of pleasure so intense it almost hurts. And then Dean cries out and stills, face frozen in a grimace of pleasure, ropes of come spattering his chest, internal muscles clenching hard around Arthur.

Growling, Arthur urges Dean to lift up—Dean lets him, cooperating like he hasn’t before, holding the position with a slightly glazed look—and drives up into him with all he’s got, once, twice, a couple more times and he’s coming too.

He collapses back on the floor, exhausted, heart racing, limbs like made from jelly. Dean pitches forward, stopping his fall with hands braced on either side of Arthur's shoulders. Slowly, their breathing evens out.

Then soon—too soon—Dean is moving away, lifting up, standing, stepping out of Arthur’s reach with slightly stiff movements. He gets back into the shower, where hot water is still aplenty thanks to the magical engineering of the Men of Letters, and starts to wash himself clean.

The floor is hard and uncomfortable now that there’s no Dean to distract Arthur from that fact, so he sits up, pushing to his feet as well. He throws the used condom into the rubbish bin under the sink and joins Dean in the shower again.

But Dean’s already done showering and steps out, leaving Arthur alone and with no reason to stay there any longer than necessary.

He hands Arthur a towel though, when Arthur’s done and shuts the water off. The room is strangely silent now.

“You did good, back there,” Dean says as he’s putting on clean boxers he must've had stored somewhere. “Watching Charlie’s back. Not giving up the camp’s location when they caught you.”

It’s the first thing Dean’s said to him since they had sex, and it sort of makes Arthur feel like a dog who got a pat on the back and a treat for learning a new trick. He wonders if that’s what this was, Dean giving him a treat, a bit of the good old positive reinforcement.

But he figures even if it was that, it wasn’t  _just_  that; Dean wanted it too, or needed it, in some way.

“I wouldn’t just give those people up,” is what he says, after a moment of silence.

Pulling a t-shirt over his head, Dean looks at him. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.” His face serious, eyes boring into Arthur’s, he adds, “Hey, Ketch. Don’t let me down.”

Arthur isn’t sure if it’s a threat or a plea, but he nods. “I won’t.”

Dean nods back. “You better.”

More silence.

Arthur reaches for his pants. His stomach rumbles then. “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Care to join me in the kitchen for some refreshment?”

“Nah, I’m not hungry.”

“Really.” He hasn’t seen Dean eat since the rescue.

“Yeah, really.” Dean makes a sour face. “Besides, I’m not going upstairs unless I have to. I can’t stand looking at the mess everywhere. Apocalypse survivors or not, they should remember what trash cans are for. Or basic manners, like maybe not putting your dirty boots on the table and getting all sorts of germy crap all over it. And the kitchen…” He shakes his head ruefully. “Everything’s out of place. I saw them take eggs out from the carton the wrong way.”

“The wrong way,” Arthur repeats. He can’t tell if Dean is pulling his leg or not.

“Yeah. Everyone knows you take eggs from the front of the carton first, not just from any place you feel like. Front to back.” Dean’s shoving his feet into his boots angrily, completely unaware of Arthur gaping at him. “And they messed up my system in the cutlery tray. Putting stuff in the wrong compartments, you know what that can do!”

Actually, Arthur has no idea, but the way Dean says it makes him hum in agreement as if he does. He should probably look it up later.

He zips up his pants and buckles his belt, puts his jacket on, all the while Dean rambles on about the end of the world that is apparently happening upstairs. Arthur is almost certain this is not the real problem here, but what’s throwing him off is that Dean looks genuinely upset by things like coffee mugs on the teacups shelf.

Yet, he can’t help asking, “Is a little mess in the kitchen truly what you’re trying to avoid?”

Dean stops to scowl at him. “Look, I’m not gonna go cry on your shoulder and show you my super secret diary just because we fucked. Or because you decided to join me on the long and bumpy road to redemption.”

Arthur can't argue with that. “Fair enough.” After a beat, he adds, “And thank you. For letting me join the ride.”

“Yeah. What a ride it is.” Dean grabs the whisky Arthur set aside by the door and swallows several gulps, grimacing as it goes down. “Fucking never ends.” He lets out a dark chuckle. “Never ends well, anyway.”

Arthur holds out his hand. Dean passes him the bottle and Arthur drinks, then fiddles with the label. “Hey, Dean. What you said earlier… about how men like us never get a happy ending.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you deal with that?”

“You drink. You dream,” Dean says, looking at the floor. “Then the dream blows up in your face, so you drink some more.” He looks up, gives Arthur a grim smile. “You fuck.” Bending down to pick up his dirty workout clothes, he tosses them into a laundry basket in the corner of the room. “And of course, you look for people to save and things to kill.”

Arthur nods; this is something he understands, although if he’s honest with himself, he would probably mention the killing first and the saving second. He’s still working on that.

“Right.” Dean looks at him, then away. He clears his throat, tugs at the collar of his shirt absently. “I’m gonna go check the Impala. I’ve kinda neglected her lately, gotta make it up to her.”

“I’m sure she’d be willing to wait until morning.” To Arthur’s best knowledge, Dean hasn’t had proper sleep for over two days at least. Probably longer than that.

A shrug. “Maybe she would, but I wanna see her. You go on, grab some food.”

None of this is Arthur's business, he knows that. But he  _has_  to ask; this doesn't make any sense to him and he needs to understand. "I just... You worked so hard to get your mother back. It’s why you did all this, why you went through the portal in the first place. Now you’re telling me you want to stay holed up down here rather than be up there with her?”

Dean tenses visibly. “What I wanted was to get her out of that dump." His tone is curt, face unreadable. "Never said anything about her giving me hugs and kissing me goodnight.”

Arthur opens his mouth to point out that  _nobody_  said anything about hugs and goodnight kisses, but decides against it. He's not getting through the wall Dean's built around himself so quickly again. “So you really won’t show up upstairs tonight.”

Another careless shrug. “It’s not like I’m hiding or running away. Sam knows where to find me if he needs me.”

“And if anyone else starts looking for you?”

But Dean’s already walking through the door. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he says over his shoulder, without turning back or even slowing down. His footsteps echo in the corridor, receding. Then a door slams shut loudly at the end of the corridor, and the entire floor is silent.

Arthur takes a swig from the bottle of whisky, now almost empty, and heads back upstairs, where it’s full of people and noise.

 

 

 


End file.
